


A man's desire for a son is usually nothing but the wish to duplicate himself

by Mandibles



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Caning, Daddy Issues, Humiliation, M/M, POV Second Person, Punishment, Sibling Incest, Switches to Third Person at end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett is more like Malcolm than either of them can stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A man's desire for a son is usually nothing but the wish to duplicate himself

**Author's Note:**

> Again, just another really old kinkmeme fill.

Back in Lothering, there was a cane. It was a meter long, wood, and was settled nicely in the corner besides Father’s chair. You recall shuffling shamefully before that chair, before your father, and awaiting your punishment. But, it was never the inevitable beating that tortured you. No, it was this _look_ Father gave you.

It was much less disappointment than disinterest, disinterest in you, and it brought you to tears before the cane could touch your skin.

“What did you say?”

You’re not the least bit surprised that your brother can execute the look so perfectly.

Garrett, however, isn’t Father, so you don’t back down. “ _It’s your fault_ ,” you repeat nastily, “You and the rest of those damned monsters! If it wasn’t for you, Mother—”

He bristles, your brother, and you ready for the fury. “‘Monsters,’ Carver? Is that what mages are now? Is that what Bethany was? What Father was?”

You look at him evenly.

“What you are.”

The punch is expected, but it still sends you reeling into the table. Varric’s tankard topples over, ale sloshing everywhere. That must be where the dwarf crosses line, because just as you ready to return the strike, he steps in.

“Now look here—”

“Stay out of this, Varric.” Your brother is the one to growl this; you’re too busy choking from the brutal grip around your throat.

You see Varric throw his hands up in defeat.

“Fine, be that way. The room better be in one piece when we get back.”

Spots are swirling across your vision by the time the door slams, taking Varric and Bianca with it. Then, it’s just you, you and fury in your brother’s eyes.

“You ungrateful piece of shit,” he hisses, “Who’s taken care of the family since Father died? Who gave you a bed to sleep in, food in your stomach?”

You gargle your response.

Garrett lets you go, turns his back on you. You gather your bearings quickly, wiping drool away with the back of your hand.

“You fucking . . . fucking . . .”

“Bend over.”

That stops you.

“What?”

Your brother looks over his shoulder. The rage is gone now, replaced by Father’s apathy.

“I said to bend over, Carver,” he repeats calmly, folding his arms.

You stare in disbelief.

Garrett frowns. “I will _not_ repeat myself.”

“You’ve lost your damned mind—”

Your brother calmly, very calmly, reaches back for his staff. It’s wood, polished, a meter and a half long. And, suddenly, it’s all so very clear.

“ _Now_.”

Blood rushes to your head. Beyond the pounding in your ears, you can just make out your frantic sucks for breath.

You could walk away, just leave. You could, you could! In fact, do it now. _Leave_. It’s not far. Just move your feet, Carver. Move, _move_.

But, you don’t. You stand there, stare helplessly at your Father.

The sob escapes you before you can stop it. Tears follow as they have done so many times before, rolling down your cheeks.

Garrett gives you moment to cry before he barks, “The armor.”

You hesitate, then pull off your gauntlets. They hit the floor with a clank and you begin to undo your armor. Your brother’s gaze is ever present as you unlace and unbuckle. His gaze isn’t painful, but intrusive once you realize that you haven’t undressed in front of him since you were a boy.

You stand, ashamed, before your brother in a loose shirt and breeches. You take in a breath, shaken by the sobs that still want to break free.

This is madness.

“Brother, I—”

The staff cuts through the air, sharp, making you jump.

“ _Turn_.”

You obey, turn. Ale seeps between your fingers as you brace against the table, and, fuck, this is Varric’s room. Who knows when the dwarf will return? For a fleeting moment you imagine Varric bursting back into the room only to see your arse in the air, red and covered in thick welts.

Heat spreads across your groin.

No.

No.

No. No no no.

Garrett draws close and your face flushes in shame. His fingers curl into your breeches, your pants, and brings them down to your thighs in one go. Your cock falls free, limp between your legs, but twitches with interest.

You jerk when the staff knocks against your thigh.

“Twelve strokes,” your brother announces loudly, somuchtoomuch like Father. “I expect you to keep count. Is that understood?”

Silence.

He gets hold of your hair, whips your head back.

“Is. That. Understood?”

A sob.

“Maker help me,” you whisper, for reasons you hope your brother never understands.

That seems to be enough for him and he pulls back. “Twelve,” he reminds. You catch yourself nodding eagerly.

The strike comes fast and you aren’t prepared for it. You yelp, slide forward across the table. It takes a moment to recollect yourself, then:

“One.”

There is no laughter, no mocking remark, no acknowledgement whatsoever. Just another lash.

“Two.”

The sting, the burn, finally sets in by the third blow and leaves you gasping for air.

“Three.”

Your nails claw into the table.

“Four.”

A whimper builds in your throat.

“Five.”

Father would pause at this point. Not stop completely, mind you, but let you breathe. When a hand settles on your hip, you sigh, relieved.

“Ask for another.”

What? You look back at him, disgusted. Has he lost his mind? You would never—

“Please, brother, another.”

You don’t realize you’ve said this until you are rewarded. The staff strikes down and you cry out. Your brother waits, but soon grows tired of your gasping. There’s a familiar pinch to your throat.

“That was six, Carver.”

You nod. The rancid smell of ale and wood is making you light-headed. The pain in your neck does not relent.

“ _Say it_.”

“Six.”

The hand pulls away, rakes through your hair.

“Good.”

It’s too close, too intimate. Breath disturbs the hairs on your neck. But still, your cheeks flush in delight at the praise.

You’re hard. You’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s insistent between your legs. Bile rises in the back of your throat.

The staff comes down with a thwack, but you only let out a desperate whimper.

“Seven.”

You bite your lip to keep from moaning, copper stinging your tongue.

“Eight.”

Your knees buckle beneath you, your cock bouncing eagerly between your legs.

“ _Nine_.” It’s groaned, unable to mask your pleasure any longer.

A beat.

“Carver? Carver, what—”

Garrett lowers his staff, but you catch it before it can go too far.

“Shut up, Garrett, _shut up_. Just—Just—” You tug at the staff, wanting it closer. “Three more strokes, brother.”

Revulsion contorts your brother’s face and he snatches the staff back.

“You sick little . . .”

“Shut up!” You lash out behind you, knocking an elbow into Garrett’s face. Before you can hit again, your face slams into the table, reds and whites sparking in your eyes.

Your brother’s anger comes out in huffing breaths, a bull ready to charge. He strikes you in a rage, then his hips pull flush against your arse; you groan both in despair and desperation. Your body makes to push back, but, thankfully, Garrett’s hand is firm on your spine.

“Is that how you want it, pervert?” The groin pressed to you disappears, but is promptly replaced by another lash. You squeal at the sharpness of this stroke, one that threatens to mark the skin. “Is it?!”

The next strike—number twelve—lands right over the growing welt and your howl rings through the room. Your legs do give out then; your brother lets you go, lets you crumble to your knees.

You stay like that for seconds, minutes, your arms wrapped around you, willing for some amount of sanity to return to you. It’s when your breathing calms that you realize you aren’t the only one panting for his life.

He towers above you, Garrett, the staff limp in his hand. Sweat stings your eyes as you look upon him, searching, searching for that piece of Father, the piece that started this. But, there is only a man, only your brother, his skin tight, flushed. His face bursts with emotion, eyes darkening and lips trembling and he’s your brother, your brother, your brother—

The staff hits the floor, rolls, and bumps into you.

You open your mouth to speak, but you are unsure of what to say. Thankfully, your brother breaks the silence.

“G-Go home, Carver.” His voice is weary, stammered. “To the Chantry, to the Circle, whatever. Just—Just—go.”

A part of you wants to argue, but you haven’t any reason to. So, you do as he asks, hesitating only when you ease pants and breeches over your half-hard cock.

Any anger that threatened to overtake you settled to the bottom of your chest, replaced by something . . . something different.

  Concealed in Templar armor, you feel brave, brave enough to say, “Goodbye, brother.”

“Goodbye,” Garrett chokes on the next word. “Brother.”

-

The door shuts and Garrett’s eyes slide close. He takes a much-needed inhale, exhale.

“How long have you been there, Varric?”

After a creak, the dwarf stands beside him, anything but sheepish.

“Long enough.”

“Too long,” Garrett concludes hoarsely.

Silence.

“You must find me repulsive.”

A sigh.

“I . . . I really don’t know, Hawke.”

Not even the tiniest trace of his natural humor. Teeth grit; hands fist. Garret’s relationship with Carver has always been strained, but the thought of losing Varric, his one true friend, is too much.

“Right.” He makes to leave.

“Wait.”

Garrett stops in the doorway, hopeful, however, when he turns, the dwarf only hands him his staff. The mage makes to wrench it back, but a kind hand on his stops him.

“You aren’t a monster, Hawke,” Varric assures, “Or a hero. You’re just a man.”

The older Hawke stares at the staff—wood, polished, a meter and a half long—and sees his brother outstretched before him, scarlet and needy.

“If all men are like this,” he breathes, “All men must be monsters.”


End file.
